


It’s Not The Destination, But The Journey (And How His Heart Keeps Beating On)

by withlightning



Series: Journey 'verse [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inception_kink, Insanity, M/M, Self Harm, dark themes, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks the doctor doesn’t see. He thinks that the doctor doesn’t see the way the floor is trying to drown them both, trying to drown them into the endless, bottomless emptiness; doesn’t see how the ceiling is sneaking closer and closer and closer, wanting to crush them. He thinks that the doctor really, really doesn’t see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s Not The Destination, But The Journey (And How His Heart Keeps Beating On)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jack (Jacinda)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jack+%28Jacinda%29).



> Written for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/15916.html?thread=32965164#t32965164) at the [inception_kink](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/). I'm sorry, nonnie. I hope you like this, even a little bit. Tried to fill one of [knowmydark](http://knowmydark.livejournal.com/)'s prompts, the one about stairway!sex I claimed like ten rounds ago, but, uh, I'm sorry about that one, too. I promise I'll fill it BETTER later, okay?
> 
> I'm not kidding when I say this fic is disturbing. If dark themes aren't your thing, DO NOT READ. I don't wish to trigger people or make anyone ill. It's not my intention.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Jack. Beta by Olga and Amy. Lots and lots of love to you all!

He wakes up. Head pounding, he opens his eyes carefully and breathes the stale, sweat-tinged air. Shaking off the disorientation, he looks around; he’s in a room with dimmed lights. He sees no windows and only one heavily-built door with no handle. The door is vibrating, pulsing like it’s alive. He blinks his eyes, and blinks and blinks again.

 

The door keeps on pulsing.

 

Shifting his gaze lazily like he’s drunk, he sees there isn’t any desk, any chairs, anything that would make the room look comfortable at all. Lifting his aching head he sees he’s lying on a bed, a not all that comfortable one, and he's wearing thin cotton clothes – thin, they’re transparent— and he can see the pale skin of his legs under the cloth, can see a gash on his hip, can see dark, dried blood on his inner wrist. Straining his hearing, he realizes there’s no sound anywhere, only his heart beating on his temples and the quick breathing of his raspy lungs.

 

That’s when it hits him: He can’t remember what happened.

 

*

 

It’s some time later when the door clanks and opens. The bright light of fluorescent hurts his eyes and he squints against it.

 

A man walks in, a man with disturbingly pristine, white coat and small glasses perched on his nose. A doctor, he realizes.

 

The door stays open.

 

He sits up gingerly, head fuzzy like never before, mouth desert-dry. Before he has the chance to ask – or rather, demand anything – the man comes a bit closer, keeping his distance. _Safety distance_ , he thinks, wanting to sneer.

 

“You’re awake.”

 

It takes him three times with a cough to say, “Where am I?”

 

The doctor stares at him unnervingly. “You don’t remember?”

 

He snorts drily. “You think I would be asking if I did?”

 

The wall on the other side of the room is changing greys; ugly light grey, ugly dark grey, ugly black, ugly light grey again, shifting, moulding.

 

“I see,” the doctor says.

 

He thinks the doctor doesn’t see. He thinks that the doctor doesn’t see the way the floor is trying to drown them both, trying to drown them into the endless, bottomless emptiness; doesn’t see how the ceiling is sneaking closer and closer and closer, wanting to crush them. He thinks that the doctor really, really doesn’t see.

 

“Look,” he says with his most patient, kind voice and lifts his hand to scratch his neck. He feels a rash under his fingertips. He lowers his hand. “I kind of have somewhere to be.” And he does. He does have places to be, people to see. People like Eames, oh God, _Eames_ , and Cobb and Mal and—

 

Except, no. Mal’s dead, he remembers suddenly and it’s like a freight train of grief upon him and glassy, white eyes staring at him from the corridor. He really, really does have places to be. “I’m sure you have,” the doctor says sounding warm in a way that makes him cold. “But you see, you’re here now.”

 

The bed lurches four inches to the right. He’s getting a real bad vibe about everything. “Where is here, exactly?”

 

The doctor keeps staring at him and he can see Mal’s eyes, already dead before her body followed, in the doctor’s. “Redville Facility.”

 

Darkness swallows him, he’s falling and he tries to breathe.

 

*

 

The room is alive, he’s sure.

 

The walls are shifting, like an abyss of dark colors, and the seeping cold light under the rusty door ignites the floor in flames. The ceiling whispers him names, names from his past— Jenny, Julie, Dom, James, Ariadne, Mal, Eames – and it laughs, the ceiling laughs maddeningly and the walls join in, wailing and the floor remains aflame, keeps burning and it’s coming closer, closer still and he shuts his eyes, tightly. His nails hurt his palms, digging in and there’s wetness on his hands, on his cheeks.

 

He tries to breathe, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale and the room is still alive. He’s falling.

 

*

 

 _”Arthur.”_

 _Arthur knows something’s not right. He knows he’s been distracted, he knows he’s been off his game lately and the last thing he’d want is to cause troubles for the team. His role as point isn’t something he takes lightly, and there isn’t anything he’d do to ever jeopardize his position. Except something is happening, he knows it. And so does Eames._

 _“Arthur,” says Eames again, carefully, eyes round and worried._

 _Arthur looks at his hands. They’re shaking. He flexes his fingers into a fist, opens the hand, flexes and opens again. They’re still shaking. “I don’t know,” he admits, swallowing._

 _Eames doesn’t move from his seat. “Should we call off the—“_

 _“No.” Arthur can handle this, he can. It’s only his hands that are shaking, not his, say, legs. He can function fine. He takes a deep breath and stands up. Eames stands up as well, but doesn’t come nearer. “I feel fine,” Arthur says and moves to get rid of the needles and close the aluminum case. “I’m fine.” His hands shake only a little, and with a bit of concentration his fingers work efficiently._

 _What bothers Arthur more than his shaking hands is the way the dream collapsed, the way it collapsed again and again and again, the way it collapsed every time they went back. And even with Eames as the dreamer, Arthur’s mind started to bend the scenery without actually thinking about it. The nice beach and blue waves Eames created turned into a tsunami that swept away every last crumb of the sand, leaving only nothingness. The tall overgrown palm trees died in the blink of an eye, replaced by barren trunks and wisps, the cloudless, light sky with warm sunshine pushed away by the stormy clouds and cold, cold wind. It bothers him, the fact that there were no projections of any kind. The fact that Arthur wasn’t able to fill the dream with projections. It was all wrong— so very wrong._

 _Arthur isn’t sure when things started going wrong. The situation snuck and surprised him with its intensity, following him in every dream, in every job and even in some sleepless nights. It was the plaguing thought of not being able to do anything, of not being able to stop it, of not being able to make it better._

 _“Right,” Eames says. “Let me get that for you.” Arthur can feel the headache coming, can feel the pressure of it blooming on his temples. Eames steps next to him, hand briefly touching Arthur’s and pulling away to get the case._

 _There’s something wrong with his vision too. All the colors are fading away. He shakes his head, closes his eyes and his head starts to hurt. Opening his eyes, he’s still seeing only shades of greys and black and white. Eames lifts the grey case effortlessly and casts a worried look at him. “I said I’m fine,” Arthur hisses and there’s roaring in his ears._

 _Eames’ face crumples a bit as he says, “I shall leave you to it, then.” He stands there for a beat longer, staring at Arthur, worry clear on his forehead. Arthur feels bad, fleetingly, for snapping at Eames; it’s not Eames’ fault, he knows. He’ll apologize later, when they’re in their hotel room. As for now, he’d very much like to be left alone. Eames knows this and says, “Will I see you later?” Arthur gives a quick nod, vision sparkling with pain, and he sucks in breath, silently. “Fine,” Eames confirms and leaves._

 _As soon as he’s sure he’s alone, he sits down and holds his hands around his head. Everything is grey and his head hurts, hurts like someone’s hammering on his skull and all he can hear is a buzz inside his head._

 _His hands are shaking when he seeks out the dark grey die, unsteady fingers catching on the edge of the pocket as he fumbles his digits in, clawing his thigh in the process. He squeezes the cube in his fist and rolls. He doesn’t hear the clatter against the table but sees the result. He lifts the die again and throws, again and again. The result is the same. It’s real. _This is reality_ ; he thinks and clutches his head harder, willing the pain away. Ears ringing, he breathes loudly, concentrates on his breathing, his heart beating madly in his chest. The taste of bitter bursts in his mouth and he swallows reflexively, swallows—_

 

 _“I’m terribly sorry, I forgot my—“ It’s Eames, walking back inside, “—jacket.” Arthur keeps his hands around his head, Eames’ voice sending tremors down his back, and he shivers. It’s getting worse and he squeezes his eyes shut and barely stifles a moan._

 

 _And Eames is there, he’s right there next to him, and then there are strong and gentle hands on his shoulders, kneading in carefully, skilfully. Fingers dig into his neck and press, press harder and the fireworks inside his head intensify and lessen gradually. There’s a palm against his forehead, pulling his head back to rest on Eames’ stomach, and then there are thumbs on his temples, rubbing in circles. Arthur’s mouth falls open because the pain is receding altogether, leaving him with every round move and he can breathe again. His wildly beating heart is slowing down, and this time he lets out the moan, doesn’t even bother to keep it in. He feels limp, feels like he’s just run a marathon, muscles trembling with the exertion._

 

 _Opening his eyes, he sees he’s getting the colors back; the red die is on the table and the black is back to blue. Eames glides his fingers behind Arthur’s ears, sending shivers, and suddenly he’s cold, he’s so very cold and tired and he wants to sleep. Eames keeps massaging his head and asks quietly, “Any better?”_

 

 _Arthur whispers hoarsely. “Yeah.” He knows Eames has questions, knows Eames would like to talk about it, but he’s just so damn tired and honestly doesn’t know what to say. They can talk in the morning, before the scheduled job begins._

 

 _“That was a bit terrifying, wasn’t it?” Eames says and runs his hands through Arthur’s hair._

 

 _Arthur sighs, content, and says, “Tomorrow.” And because Eames is Eames, Eames understands. Why he does, Arthur doesn’t know and he suspects he’ll never know._

 

 _Eames stills for a moment, fingers freezing, before he keeps up the motion. “Very well.”_

 

 _Arthur closes his eyes and leans on Eames._

 

*

 

It’s only the next time he feels he’s awake, when his hands are reaching, landing on his thighs, searching for pockets. There are none. Caked blood flakes on his clothes and he turns his palms up. Scratching, he finds skin underneath the blood and sees four half-moon-shaped tears and remembers pressing his fingers into a fist.

 

The ceiling wears a dimmed light, muted and dull, and his eyes catch the scar on his hip. It’s recent, angry red and hot to the touch, and he pushes his index finger down harder, feels the pain searing through his abdomen and sparking all the way to his knee and he lets out an off-bitten moan.

 

His other hand is still trying to find something, something he can’t get a grasp on.

 

The bed creaks as he stands up, feet shaking under the sudden weight. He has no idea how long he’s been there lying down, sweating on the sheets. The air is stale, still. He takes a step, another, ankle stinging in tenderness.

 

The door is closed, blocked. He looks for the hinges but sees none. They must be on the outside.

 

The wall is still, earthy brownish and when he touches the surface, it’s spiky, like teeny weensy needles. He doesn’t touch the wall again.

 

The floor is cold under his bare feet, hard and sticky. He thinks he can see faces melted into it, familiar faces; blue and brown and grey eyes with thin and full lips and creasing foreheads, all staring at him, following his every step. He looks up to the ceiling.

 

The ceiling is dark, only three spots giving light— covered with plastic or glass, he can’t be sure. The ceiling is quiet; empathetic and friendly, today, it seems. He’s thankful.

 

Circling around the small room, he sees there’s nothing there, absolutely nothing at all. Even his bed is bolted to the floor, not giving an inch, no matter how hard he tries to lift it.

 

He sits down on the bed and waits. And waits. And waits.

 

*

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

He jerks up, vision swimming, and concentrates on the person in front of him. It’s the doctor. The light is spilling from the corridor, filling the room with its brightness and lies, and he feels sick.

 

Swallowing the acrid bile, he says, “I need to make a phone call.”

 

The doctor peers at his face, almost hidden in the shadows, only one cheek, ear and the side of his neck glowing like a beacon. The doctor shakes his head slowly. “I’m afraid that’s not advisable.”

 

“Right,” he replies, despising. “How about some food, then?” He isn’t hungry and he can’t remember the last time he has eaten anything.

 

“That can be arranged,” the doctor says quietly. “But really, Arthur. How are you feeling?”

 

He thinks about the way the room seems like another dimension, like a paradox in the shape of possible. He thinks about the way the ceiling keeps saying Eames’ name over and over like a mantra, like something that’s both disgraceful and something to be valued. He thinks about the burning hot and numbingly cold floor and his tired feet. He says nothing.

 

“Very well,” the doctor says, disappointed, and leaves.

 

He says nothing. The door clanks closed and he shivers.

 

*

 

The room is alive, he’s certain.

 

The walls remind him of every impossible law in physics, remind him of spectrums of darkness.

 

The floor is like the life-sucking vortex, wanting to swallow him whole, wanting his beating heart and the flowing blood in his veins.

 

He keeps his breath, tries not to move, tries not to make a sound, tries to be invisible like the clothes on him.

 

The ceiling is screaming Cobb’s name, it’s screaming Mal’s name. The ceiling is wailing Eames’ name, over and over again, _Eames, Eames, Eames_.

 

The floor is on fire, out of control, licking the side of his bed, burning and burning and it’s Eames’ grey gaze staring at him among the flames.

 

The room is breathing life and death and he crawls inside, crawls inside his skin and doesn’t move.

 

*

 

 _“Don’t be silly,” Eames says, eyes shining with affection and neck red from Arthur’s beard burn. The top buttons of his shirt are undone and there’s a ridiculous, tiny love bite below his ear. A tiny love bite that Arthur just made. Arthur’s lips are still tingling._

 _Arthur gives a short laugh, leans against Eames’ broad shoulder and continues, “I’m not. I’m serious. If it comes to that you know what to do, right?”_

 _Eames nuzzles Arthur’s temple, warm air spreading on Arthur’s skin, soft lips touching the shell of Arthur’s ear and he says, “It’ll never go that far.”_

 _Arthur shakes his head quickly and says, “Promise me. You have to promise.” And the thing is, it’s important, _this_ is important and it’s not like Arthur’s asking this of just anyone. He’s asking Eames, and that makes all the difference in the world. _

 

 _And Eames smiles, carefree and warm, and says, “Oh, love. If it’ll come to that I’ll be sure to be right there and go insane with you.” He kisses Arthur, hard._

 

 _Arthur kisses back, kisses and kisses and says, “Eames.”_

 

 _And Eames’ lips touch Arthur’s chin, touch Arthur’s neck, cheek and temple, and on the side of Arthur’s ear Eames whispers, “I promise.”_

 

*

 

There is food. There is soup of some kind and a spoon. He isn’t hungry.

 

His arm itches and he scratches the side of his elbow, arm, and part of his shoulder. He feels a rash there, too, and his arm is sore, like it is bruised. But he doesn’t remember it being sore before. He frowns and tries to think about something, tries to remember something important. He thinks. He thinks real hard.

 

He remembers people, remembers dreams, remembers himself, remembers what is important – except that one thing he can’t remember, that one thing he’s trying so hard to remember. He remembers the rush of waking up from a dream, remembers Mal’s flowy summer dress in the wind, remembers Cobb’s collapsed shoulders when Cobb cried the first time after Mal died, remembers colors he thinks he hasn’t seen in ages: orange, yellow, green. He remembers what it’s like to be touched, to touch back, remembers kisses and cereal for breakfast, remembers falling asleep with someone. He remembers Eames, remembers them and he wonders where Eames is, wonders if Eames is looking for him, wonders what happened. He wonders why Eames isn’t here, with him.

 

The soup doesn’t smell like anything at all, and he’s not willing to taste it either. His hand finds his hip, fingers tracing the edges of the gash. Looking down, he sees it’s gotten bigger. The delicate, sensitive skin is larger, like a foreign patch on perfectly healthy skin, like a patch of disease and hurt and uncertainty. His fingers press in, breaking the numbness into pain, and he bites his lip. His dirty, shaggy hair falls on his forehead, shades part of the bursting skin and seeping red – light red, dark red, darker still. The spark of pain traveling to his toes feels familiar, feels soothing.

 

He remembers real food; remembers knives and forks, shiny and unmarked. He remembers the heaviness of a real knife, army knife in his hand; he remembers the way the handle fits and the blade shines, remembers trying the sharpness with the tip of his thumb, and remembers never hurting himself with any knife before. He thinks he maybe should have. He thinks it might be too late, now, to try.

 

His fingers come away with sticky redness, fingernails stained with his own blood from before. He lifts them higher, higher, and inspects the way the liquid moulds into his fingerprints, like melting, coating them. Lifting higher, under his nose, he takes a sniff. Nothing. His blood smells of nothingness.

 

One of the three lights goes off, dimming everything an even darker shade of grey, and he misses colors. The ceiling comes alive as if from a press of a button, quiet, but alive nonetheless. He shudders when the ceiling starts screaming _Eameseameseameseameseames_ , a long, looping string of the name, the most important name, all melted into one never-ending wail.

 

He screws his eyes shut.

 

The cooling pad of his middle finger touches his lower lip, painting it with stickiness. Licking, he tastes nothing. He’s losing his sanity, he’s sure.

 

The floor under his feet is warm, heated, hot. The soup stands untouched in the middle of the black swirls, the shiny spoon that’s not a knife next to it.

 

Eames, he thinks. _Eames._

 

*

 

“How are you feeling today, Arthur?”

 

He opens his eyes sluggishly and his stomach rolls with all the light flooding his room. It’s like a kick to the gut; he swallows a groan. He sits up, carefully, because his hip feels like it’s burning, feels like it’s on fire and the skin is melting all the way to the bone. The doctor stands a few feet away and there are splatters on his coat. Spatters of blood, he sees.

 

Gripping the side of the bed, hand hurting from the pressure, he answers. “Better.” The doctor says nothing. “Actually, I think I could be up for a small walk,” he continues and coughs once, trying to chase the dryness away.

 

The doctor keeps staring at him, then makes a sign with his hand and another man comes in the room. The man is big and broad and there’s a gaping hole in his neck. He can see the torn tendons and pieces of ripped muscle. The wound isn’t bleeding, though. It just exists.

 

He licks his lips and stands up, slowly. It’s as if someone’s gnawing on his hipbone and he can almost hear the sound they’re making. The room tilts and he almost loses his footing. Vision swimming, he concentrates hard enough to take a step. Then another. And another. And another step before he stops in front of the doctor.

 

“Shall we?”

 

He nods quickly and the doctor gives him some room to move. The brightness of the corridor freezes him for a moment and he almost goes down on his knees. “I’m fine,” he says, brisk, and counts to five in his head. Making his way down the hallway, he takes in as many details as he can; the metal grating on the small windows, the rows of doors just like his, the ugly linoleum floor; everything clinic and impersonal. He sees no other people milling around, it’s just him and the doctor and the man.

 

The corridor is ending suddenly and he walks quietly, hears low moaning from behind one of the doors. His eyes follow the door as he passes it. There’s a pool of greyish substance on the floor. He circles around it.

 

Turning around the corner, he arrives into a hall with tall marble pillars and a room he suspects is a station for nurses or guards. The blinking of one of the machinery stops him. It’s too rhythmic, too familiar, too distracting. He stares at the white light turning on, off, on, off, on, off, until his eyes hurts.

 

It’s looping. It’s Morse.

 

Short, pause. Short, long, pause. Long, long, pause. Short, pause. Short, short, short, and then again from the beginning with a longer pause.

 

 _Eames._ Over and over again, Eames, Eames, Eames, Eames, Eames, and he can see Eames’ smiling face in front of him. He can see the crow’s feet in the corners of Eames’ eyes, can see the slope of his lips, can see the dimples on Eames’ cheeks. He can see the way Eames’ hair sticks up in the mornings, the way Eames bends under him, the way Eames bites off moans, the way Eames picks up his ties for him, the way Eames looks at him, the way—

 

“Arthur?”

 

He shakes it off, shakes the warm touch of Eames off, swallows once and inhales. “Right. Right. Sorry,” he says and glances at the doctor. The man behind the doctor is staring him down, a menacing glow in his eyes. The gaping hole on the man’s neck is getting smaller, like the skin is healing.

 

There’s a loud noise, something heavy and rusty creaking and he turns around quickly enough for his head to spin. A door is opening on the far side of the hall. He can see an arm, a leg, part of a body stepping in the building and behind is light; bright light, bright, bright light and his heart beats wildly, erratically and his head tells him to _go, go, go_ and he has to go, has to try—

 

He’s going, he’s going to go, he’s going to leave and he—

 

And it’s like his legs are frozen, like they’re stuck, and he tries to free them, tries to pull free because the light is there, it’s _right_ there and it’s getting bigger and bigger still and he has to shield his eyes because the light is like ten suns, like a hundred, million suns and it burns and he’s going, he’s leaving—

 

Someone is holding him, strong hands biting into his arms, his shoulders, and it’s pain, it’s searing pain and someone’s shouting, someone’s screaming and his legs are stuck and he has to go, has to go now and someone’s still screaming, fighting—

 

And he’s falling. It’s dark again.

 

*

 

The room is alive. The room is alive with faces and eyes and it’s soulless and full of noises and so, so alive.

 

The ceiling’s coming down again, laughing and mocking and whispering, _you’re never getting out, you’re here now with us, you’re never getting out_ and then, _Eames_.

 

The walls are moving, shifting, alive, like something’s trying to push its way out through the rock, through the cement, through the paint. Fingers, he thinks he sees fingers. And a hand, a whole hand now, pushing through, offering, begging— demanding. Reaching.

 

The floor is shaking, the rumbling making the bed vibrate as the flames lick his skin, burning.

 

The noise, the noise is loud, so loud and he presses his hands against his ears, hard enough to strain his arms, muscles trembling and he can’t make it stop, can’t make it quiet.

 

Can’t make it leave him alone.

 

*

 

 _“Is that my shirt?” Eames asks. “Was I wearing that shirt last night?” Eames is in a hurry. There are clothes everywhere, on top of the couch, under the couch, in the far corner of Arthur’s bedroom, all haphazardly scattered and Arthur’s feeling a bit queasy with the mess._

 _Eames’ index finger is pointing at the white button-down shirt laying half under the cushion. Arthur loves that shirt, even if he’s never going to tell Eames. It’s just the way the shirt is crisp and fresh and makes Eames look devilish and dangerous – which he is, with or without clothes, Arthur knows – and all edges and not all that much left for imagination. “It’s not mine,” Arthur says, vague._

 _Eames dives for the shirt and throws it in the suitcase. There’s a hoodie of his on top of the counter as well, and he grabs that too and shuts the suitcase with an audible click. Eames turns to Arthur. “Right. That’s it then, I suppose,” Eames says and what is meant to be a reassuring smile comes off as sad somehow._

 _Arthur swallows and gives a small, fleeting smile back. Standing straight and pushing himself off the doorjamb, he takes a step forward. His hands make their way to Eames’ collar, gaze fixed on the miniscule creases of the shirt. Arthur swipes at them, stretches the material carefully and sweeps the sides of his fingers on Eames’ neck._

 _“Yeah,” he says, throat tight suddenly. Giving one last cursory touch and lingering look on Eames’ rough, five o’clock-shadowed throat, he takes a step back. Eames stares at him, serious, kind of anxious, and Arthur takes it all in._

 _They stand like that for few precious moments, Eames’ cab honking down on the street._

 _Eames opens his mouth to say something but in the last minute seems to change his mind. What he actually says is, “Yeah.” The gaze lingers and then he sets into action. Arthur watches as Eames grabs his coat and pats down his pockets to make sure he has everything, reaching for the handle of his suitcase. “I’ll see you when I get back, all right?”_

 _Arthur nods and Eames opens the door, stepping outside._

 _There’s a churning sensation in Arthur’s stomach, something he can’t say he’s ever felt before and he desperately calls out. “Eames.” Taking a brisk walk to the bookshelf, he quickly fishes out the spare key, hidden behind _A Brief History of Architecture_ and goes after Eames._

 

 _Eames stands outside, door flung open and wearing a look of interest. Arthur closes in on him and offers his hand. Eames’ eyes track the movement and they zero on the key dangling from Arthur’s fingers. “I’m, uh, going to Seattle, remember? So that you can get back in when I’m not here,” Arthur says, skin prickling in anticipation._

 

 _When Eames looks back at him, eyes riveted on Arthur’s, he looks devastated. And then a smile is spreading on his face, one dimple coming out after the other and if his eyes are sparkling, neither of them comments upon it out loud. Arthur feels the matching smile on his own cheeks._

 

 _Eames takes the key and drops the suitcase. His other hand goes to his pocket and he gets out the bunch of keys Arthur knows go to various places Eames very carefully avoids calling home, but are the closest things he has to such concept. Arthur’s key fits perfectly among the others as Eames attaches it with care. The bunch goes back to Eames’ front pocket and he looks positively giddy, and Arthur thinks that a thirty-something guy should look horrible when giddy, but the reality is another thing._

 

 _A hand curls around his neck and he’s being pulled closer and then there are lips on his cheek, pressing, and Arthur closes his eyes. A moment later, when the smell of Eames still lingers, the door shuts quietly._

 

 _Arthur exhales slowly and can’t help the nose-scrunching smile from staying on his face a bit longer._

 

 _When he gets back from a job well-done in Seattle, there’s a smell of burning chicken in the apartment and an uneven pile of _The Times_ and _Guardians_ on the end table he’s never seen before. There are sleek, colorful clothes hanging in the closet next to his own, a row of leather shoes and a book of Russian literature on the table on the other side of the bed. There are two sets of toothbrushes and razors and new coffee mugs unwashed in the kitchen sink. There’s also Eames in all his glory, and Arthur takes off his tie, loosens the buttons of his dress shirt and goes to the kitchen to show how to perfect a chicken breast._

 

*

 

He can’t move his hands. They’re tied up tight, holding him down, holding him in place, and he tries to pull, tries to fight and his wrists are aching, his shoulders are aching. He’s aching all over.

 

The lights are dimmed again and it’s all just a grey blur; triangle lights, square lights, double lights and it’s like he’s underwater, like he’s being pulled underneath and he’s gasping for breath, trying to breathe. He tries to pull his hands free but they’re tightly, ever so tightly, held in place and he wants to scream.

 

Chest heaving, he closes his eyes and counts to ten, counts to twenty, to one hundred. He’s still tied and the lights are dimmed. He swallows and his throat is sore. His fingers itch to pat down his thighs, to search through the pockets not there, to look for something he knows he’s missing, to look for something he knows should be there, but isn’t.

 

The ceiling is starting again, getting louder and louder and he pulls again and again, and his wrists are raw, the material biting into the skin and the tissue below, rubbing against the bone painfully. His attempts are futile and he still keeps on pulling, twisting and his shoulders are tired, his jaw is tired from the clenching and he sags down, melts on the bed and stares at the ceiling. It’s _Eameseameseames_ and _Mal_ and Eames again and it’s loud, booming and he can every little hitch of its breath, every single emotion its playing and he wishes he wouldn’t. It’s heart-breaking and loud and desperate and he can’t take it, can’t take it anymore.

 

The walls are growing spikes, growing needles, grey, silvery spikes.

 

The floor is flaming again, gathering strength, fire sneaking out from the depths.

 

“Row, row, row your boat—“ He whispers, dry lips cracking, his voice hidden under the loudness of the ceiling and he sucks in breath. The flames are rising higher and higher, surrounding the bed. “Gently down the stream—“ And it’s better, it’s good, he thinks and continues, “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—“ He stares unblinking at the triangle, square, multiple lights, hands tied, and breathes out, “Life is but a dream.”

 

That’s when he realizes, realizes what it’s all about.

 

*

 

He can’t believe it took him as long as it did before he thought about it. He can’t believe how blind he’s been, how he hasn’t been living in a haze, how he hasn’t been able to use his brains and he can’t believe any of it, really.

 

When the man with the gaping wound on his neck comes in, he asks for food again and the man unties him, Velcro rattling. His wrists are raw and bruised, the welts deep. The door closes and he touches the abrasive skin. The welts are uneven, like badly done tattoos, imprinted and messy. Nothing like the ink on Eames’ skin.

 

He traces the broken skin with his thumb, the stinging touch springing hot pressure behind his eyes. The lights snap on, full force. He squints his eyes, and vision clearing up, he sees there are pieces of the ripped skin around the red flesh and he picks on them, leaving drops of blood on their wake.

 

The door opens and the man comes back in. The doctor steps in, too. He keeps picking at his wrist, dirty fingers scratching the edge of the wound.

 

“Do they hurt?” The doctor asks, standing closer than before. He shakes his head. The doctor sighs. “They must,” the doctor continues, voice knowing. “I need to look at those.”

 

He lifts the hand closer for inspection. The doctor takes a step closer. The man comes to stand by his side, a large, misshaped shadow landing on him. He sighs and offers his wrists, inner side up, and the doctor peers at them. The shadow on his form stays still.

 

“They need to be cleaned and bandaged,” the doctor says, but doesn’t touch him. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but you see, I’m afraid we had no other choice.” He nods even if he doesn’t agree.

 

The ceiling whispers, _lieslieslies_ and _you’ll never get out, you’re here to stay_ and _Eames, Eames_.

 

The doctor says, “We’ll give you some food. It’s spinach soup day, yummy.” The doctor smiles, eyes glinting sickeningly, and leaves the room. The man moves, takes the equipment someone hands him on the other side of the door, behind the corner where he can’t see, and comes in front of him. There is cleanser, cotton pads, and bright white bandages.

 

The man dabs at his wrists, the cool liquid burning like inferno, and he bites the inside of his cheek and embraces the pain. The pads come away soaked and dark. The man twirls the long bandages tightly around his wrists, tightly enough to cut the blood circulation from his hands, his hands feeling slow.

 

The man leaves and takes the plastic plate around the corner, setting it on the bed next to him. The door closes and locks. He’s alone.

 

The soup he’s given is grey and slimy and there’s a spoon on the side. He thinks about the spoon.

 

There are the eyes or stomach, maybe even the temple if he gets the angle right. The spoon is rather tricky and would need to be edged to maximize the damage. He racks his imagination for possible ways to use the spoon. He can’t come up with anything that would actually be of any use, especially as his hands are stiff and almost numb. There’s also the possibility of the tremors. He would hate to leave the job undone.

 

He doesn’t touch the food or the spoon, but instead he sits on the bed, back against the wall and thuds his head against the surface. He does it again and again and it hurts, the dull pain blossoming from the back of his head to his temples and forehead, sparking behind his ears and sending his vision blurring. He jams his feet on the floor for leverage, thighs tensing. He hit his head again, harder, and again, harder yet.

 

And he keeps on doing it, after the point where he can’t see anything, after the point where he feels liquid running down on his back, keeps on slamming after everything turns to soft, after the wall gives in.

 

*

 

 _“Do you have a death wish?” Eames spits out, angry. Arthur doesn’t answer because really, it’s none of Eames’ business. He pushes Eames on the shoulder, with force enough to jar Eames and to get out of the pressing situation. He quickly puts more than few feet of space between them. “Why are you running, Arthur?” Eames asks, voice weary, like he’s given up. Eames is still facing the other direction, one hand against the wall in front of him and his head is hanging; in disappointment, in weariness, Arthur doesn’t know. It’s nothing good, that much he knows._

 _“I don’t,” Arthur says, wants to argue. “I’m not.”_

 _“Then why?” Eames asks, quiet. Arthur doesn’t think Eames is waiting for an answer, not really. He gives one nonetheless. He gives an answer because he’s getting tired of the running from, at and away –even if he keeps denying it– getting tired of never knowing for sure, of never giving his best where it should matter. He’s getting tired of all of it._

 _Arthur stays where he is, watches the tight back and shoulder of Eames, the material of his shirt smooth over the skin, and says, “I don’t, I’m not. But if I was, it would be because I’m not sure what’s worth anything anymore.” He’s not even sure what he’s trying to say, he really isn’t. It’s the only sensible way he can word what he means._

 _Eames sighs, shoulders rising. “Right,” he says and turns around, back against the wall. Eames looks at Arthur and he can’t decipher the look, can’t see why. Eames licks his lips once, twice, and Arthur’s staring at him blatantly, waiting. “What if—“ Eames says and coughs. Stronger, he continues, “What if I’d told you some things are worth everything?”_

 _And Arthur’s heart picks up, painfully, beating in his rib cage. He’s tired of running away, tired of running from the inevitable. There’s only so much he can take and Eames has been surprisingly patient, waiting and waiting and Arthur knows the time is here, now. He knows there isn’t any other way and he’s relieved, so suddenly. Because he’s tired of running away. He swallows and says, “I’d ask you, what things?”_

 _Eames’ eyes widen and it’s the gobsmacked look on his face that makes Arthur inexplicably glad for waiting so long and for deciding to finally give in. It’s the way Eames’ hairline rises, the way his eyebrows rise and Arthur wants to kiss him, wants to kiss the look of unreality away from Eames’ eyes._

 _Arthur considers himself brave. He’s never been the one to take anything for himself, never one to take anything for himself that would change him for the better or for the worse, because even if he’s brave, he’s not all that brave in that aspect. He thinks Eames is reason enough to try something new. Of course, it might be his self-harming nature once again, but he’s tired of over-thinking everything— especially when Eames is putting himself on the line and especially when he’s tired of running away. He doesn’t want to run anymore._

 _He takes a step forward and Eames keeps staring at him, frozen, as if he's afraid moving or saying something would break the spell and Arthur gives a fleeting smile, gets closer. His skin is prickling and he feels light, his head is light and all he can think about is the way Eames looks, hopeful and still._

 _Arthur kisses Eames._

 _Eames stays frozen for a beat longer, Arthur’s lips pressing against his, one hand rising and landing on Eames’ hair, touching the short strands. Eames moans at the sensation, moans low and Arthur swallows the sound, swallows it, breathes it in; and then Eames is getting with the program, pressing back, opening his lips, and it’s wet and warm and a tongue, slick and hungry, and Arthur’s having troubles keeping up. That’s when Eames gets his hands on Arthur, one circling his back and another grabbing his neck, fingers digging in and they’re breathing in sync, breathing hard, bordering on frantic, and god, he can’t get enough of the way Eames tastes, the way he sounds, the way he feels and Arthur has to get closer, has to get closer still and—_

 _“Is this a bad idea?” Eames asks and moves his lips under Arthur’s jaw, sucking bruises and letting out embarrassingly hot sounds, needy sounds._

 _Arthur leans closer, their hips rubbing together, gets a leg between Eames’ and scrabbles for the skin underneath Eames’ shirt. “No,” he says and turns his head to offer more skin for Eames to assault._

 _Eames bites his neck and sucks hard, whining, “This is a bad idea.”_

 _Arthur tightens his hand on Eames’ hair, twists and says, “I know,” and kisses Eames, hard. And then they’re moving, Eames is walking forward, dragging Arthur backwards in front of him and Arthur loses his footing and falls down, heart plummeting in his stomach. He realizes he’s half sitting on something, half lying on something awfully uncomfortable and Eames is crowding in on him, settling on top of him and something’s digging on his back painfully. Stairs, he remembers. There’s a stairway leading on the upper floor where all their gear is, everything they’ve been planning and—_

 _“We can’t—“ Arthur manages. “We have to—“ And Eames’ hands are gripping his sides, mouth back on his throat, sucking and scratching with his cheeks and they can’t do this here, they can’t and they can, they so can and it’s happening and Eames says, “This is a really, really bad idea.”_

 _Arthur grabs Eames by the belt and opens it swiftly, running his hand down, feeling Eames hard and thick, and Eames shudders. “As in a phenomenally bad idea,” Eames continues and Arthur says, “Eames?”_

 _“Hmm?” answers Eames, running his hands over Arthur’s hip bones, loosening Arthur’s belt and Arthur’s happy to help, shifting and lifting and Eames drags his pants down to his ankles, one hand gliding along the skin of Arthur’s leg, higher, over the knee, on the inside of Arthur’s thigh and Arthur says, “Shut up.”_

 _Miraculously enough, Eames does._

 

*

 

He wakes up. His head is pounding. He tries to open his eyes but his lids are like steel, like lead, and he gives up.

 

It’s quiet. He can hear his own harsh breathing echoing in the space around him, and his heart beating on. The air is clean, it’s clear and light and it’s really, really quiet.

 

He can’t think, can’t think at all. His head is empty and for a moment he wonders who he is, where he is, what his purpose is. There are no memories, no identity, no history.

 

There is only the sound of his lungs rasping in his ears and the _thud-thud-thud_ of his pulse and the eyes that are staying closed.

 

He lets himself fall.

 

*

 

Days, weeks, months later, he isn’t sure, he opens his eyes again. He’s lying on a bed that’s comfortable, head on a pillow that’s comfortable, and there’s the smell of septic in the air. He breathes the smell in, greedily, and can’t remember the last time he’d smelled anything. The acerbic smell is nauseating but he doesn’t care, it’s heavenly, it’s clean and it’s amazing and he hyperventilates, sits up quickly and coughs, trying to breathe some more.

 

“Hey, hey, take it easy,” says the female voice suddenly and there is a small hand drawing circles on his back. Slowly he gets his lungs to cooperate and the dizziness disappears, too.

 

He swallows and asks, “Where am I?”

 

The woman keeps rubbing his back comfortingly and says, “Somewhere where you can’t hurt yourself.”

 

He lifts his head and looks around. The walls are white, pure white. There’s a curtain in the end of the comfortable bed, translucent white. Next to the bed are machines for life support, electricity off. It’s so quiet and peaceful and the woman next to him looks empathetic with her dark eyes and dirty grey hair.

 

“I—“ He starts, overwhelmed by the serenity. “I still see everything in shades of grey.”

 

The woman smiles. “It’s quite normal and to be expected. You did kind of a number on yourself there,” she says warmly and points at his head.

 

He gingerly lifts one hand, with an ugly scar going around his wrist, and touches gently the back of his head. It feels a bit swollen and there’s a long, stitched bulge. He’s missing some of his hair around the area, too, although they’re trying to grow back, prickly to touch. “Oh,” he says and lowers his hand. He stares at his wrist. “And these?”

 

“You had them when you arrived here. I think they had to tie you down to prevent something like that,” she points at his head again, “from happening.” She sighs. “Needless to say, it didn’t help.”

 

The scars are almost healed. “I guess not,” he agrees. He looks at the woman and asks, “How long have I been here?”

 

She gives him a fond look, eyes softening around the edges some more and he swallows, again. “Quite some time,” the woman says, hand patting along his shoulder blades, up and down. “But you’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

 

He sighs and thinks, _maybe_.

 

*

 

His memory comes back to him in pieces. He knows who he is, knows what he used to do for living, knows what his life used to be. It seems like a lifetime ago, and in some ways, it is.

 

He remembers the feeling of the sedative hitting his bloodstream before he used to blink away the reality, remembers the endless possibilities, the laws of physics turned upside down. He remembers the feeling of power, the feeling of creation, the feeling of being in control.

 

He remembers people gradually. Mal with her curly hair and soulful eyes, Cobb with his wrinkled clothes and never-smiling mouth, his mother with concern on the edges of her face and the soft, caring voice. He remembers Miles and Ariadne and Denny from the college, Andrew from the Army, Jeannie and Nash from the first job he ever did. He remembers Eames last of all.

 

He remembers Eames last and when he does, it’s like a missing piece slotting in place, like a void filled with something—someone—he didn’t know he was missing. He feels sick for ever forgetting Eames, because he remembers that Eames isn’t someone he could ever forget. Eames isn’t someone anyone could ever forget.

 

He wonders what else he has forgotten.

 

*

 

 _”So this is where you’re hiding,” someone says behind him._

 _Arthur turns swiftly, papers in hand. They’re in the middle of the preparations for the job and there are two new members joining their team today. This must be one of the two. “I’m sorry, but have we met?” He can’t help asking, because, really... The man is seeping self-confidence and while that isn’t a problem for Arthur, fucking up jobs because of thinking too highly of oneself is._

 _The man quirks his lips, teetering on the edge of a real smile and says, “Unfortunately not. I’m quite positive I’d remember you and I tend to think you’d remember me, as well.” Arthur raises his eyebrow. The man’s eyes are shining. “You see, love, I’m one of those people who you really don’t forget about.” And yes, Arthur can see that already._

 _He looks at the man who’s dressed like he’s been flown out of Hawaii and had no time to change his clothes and Arthur’s sure he can smell pungent Piña Colada from where he’s standing. It’s rather revolting, actually. But the man isn’t bothered by his outfit, on the contrary, it’s as if the man knows Arthur’s annoyed and repulsed by the huge, pink orchids on the dark blue shirt and the insane plaid shorts paired up with sandals, of all things. Arthur’s sure the guy is either coming from Oahu beach or outer space._

 _There’s staring going on for a while and then the man decides to introduce himself. “Eames,” he leers, “charming to meet you, Arthur,” and offers his sunburnt hand._

 _Arthur glances at the hand, says nothing, and grabs it. The handshake is firm and strong and if Eames holds on longer than necessary, Arthur doesn’t call him on it. “Obviously you know who I am,” Arthur says, after Eames has left his hand sticky with sudden nerves he didn’t know he had in him._

 _“Mmh,” Eames hums and leans against the table. “Mal has told me all about you.”_

 _Right, of course, Arthur thinks. He should have known Eames is an acquaintance of Mal’s. Only Mal would know people so different, like Arthur and Eames and even Nash, and he’s interested to hear what exactly Mal has been saying about him to Eames. He keeps his mouth shut. Eames smirks._

 _They’re silent, Arthur standing with the papers in hand and Eames leaning against the table and there’s something about him, Arthur is aware. Something that he hasn’t seen in anyone else, so far in his life. Something that makes Arthur interested. “Oh, you needn’t to worry,” Eames breaks the silence and smiles broadly, wickedly. He has dimples, Arthur realizes dumbly. “It was nothing bad. Dear Mallory has been rather excited about you, I suppose. Given all the nightly phone calls she’s been bothering me with. You’d think she’s into cradle robbing these days,” Eames says. “Then again, you never know with Mal, do you?”_

 _And Arthur’s about to open his mouth because, no, there isn’t anything there, there’s never been and there never will be. There’s Cobb and there’s Mal and Cobb and then there’s Arthur and Arthur’s not—_

 _“Eames?” Mal’s voice carries from close by and Arthur keeps his mouth shut, bites his tongue and Eames isn’t smiling all that widely anymore. Instead, there’s this calculative look on his face, eyes shining with intelligence, and Arthur feels like taking a step back because Eames, this Eames isn’t the same Eames he was barely a moment ago. “Eames—Oh, here you are,” Mal says, coming into the room. Her gaze flips knowingly between him and Eames and she says politely if not a bit smug, “I see you two have already met.”_

 _“Yes,” Eames says. “Arthur here is quite the charmer, just like you told me ages ago.”_

 _Mal turns to Eames, “He is, isn’t he?” Eames doesn’t turn to her, instead keeps his intense eyes on Arthur. He hums an agreement again. “How about we’d go and meet the rest of the team?” Mal asks, carefree, and Eames nods, gives a brief smile at her way._

 _“Sure, lead the way,” Eames says. Mal leaves the room, hollering Cobb’s name, fading away. Eames is still leaning against the table, looking all kinds of thoughtful. Arthur keeps his face impassive. “You know what Arthur?” he asks as he pushes away from the table, standing up slowly. Without waiting for Arthur to reply, he continues, “I think we’ll get along fabulously.” Arthur tries to convey indifference and boredom and Eames laughs. “Yes, just fabulously.”_

 _Arthur keeps his gaze on the door after Eames, with his Piña Colada fragrance, leaves. It’s only later when he has to agree that yes, they do get along fabulously. Whereas Eames is flirty and annoying on the surface, down in the dreams he’s like another person and after few times going under with Eames, seeing Eames work, seeing the change both in his body and attitude, Arthur has to admit that first impressions aren’t everything. That in fact, first impressions can be as far away from the truth as they can be. Eames is attentive and he learns quickly the things Arthur thinks are important, and Eames is strong and bull-headed but he listens to Arthur all the same and they compromise for the most part._

 _Eames in dreamscape is amazing. Eames up above is annoying and confusing. And if Arthur finds himself looking for more jobs to do with Eames in the team, he admits nothing. He just likes dreaming, that’s all._

 

*

 

He wakes up, again. Opening his eyes he sees he’s in the dark room. He has no idea how he got there, has no idea at all.

 

The noise starts almost as soon as he looks up at the ceiling. There’s frantic screaming and air is stale and the pain inside his head is spreading, beating dully on his temples. His shoulder hurts, the muscle tender, and his hip is burning up, drilling all the way into the bone.

 

The room is dark and he thinks it didn’t used to be, thinks that there used to be pure white on the walls instead of the dark. He thinks there used to be other colors instead of the grey and the angry red, a long, long time ago. He thinks he should remember something important, something he used to remember, something he needs so that he could remember.

 

The ceiling keeps screaming, accusing, _Eameseameseameseames_ and looking at the floor he can see Eames’ face, hollow and open-mouthed, staring at him, grey eyes lifeless and still. He wants to touch Eames’ face, wants to run his fingers on Eames’ lips, like he thinks he has before. He gets down on his knees and the floor is burning, it’s hot and his legs are on fire but he crawls closer. He crawls closer still and his hands are on fire, too, and then he’s there, next to Eames’ face and he can see eyelashes, can see the eyebrows and cheeks, the slope of Eames’ jaw, the bridge of Eames’ nose. He can see the eyes staring up, staring at him unblinking, and he feels suddenly, inexplicably, sorry. He feels like he should say he’s sorry, that he’s so goddamn sorry and he doesn’t even know why. It’s the way of Eames’ intense, lifeless stare and the way of his lips, round and surprised. He lifts his numb hand and touches one of the eyebrows. His fingers touch the smooth surface of the floor, over and over again, swiping the eyebrow and the side of Eames’ temple.

 

There’s wetness on the floor, wetness on his face and he keeps touching.

 

The ceiling keeps screaming Eames’ name and he can’t separate where the name ends and where it begins.

 

The wall is moving, it’s shifting and shaping and in the darkness there’s a hand coming out. The hand is reaching, twisting and turning, seeking. He keeps his other hand on Eames’ face and takes hold of the dark hand with his other. The hand from the wall feels familiar, like he’s held onto it before, rough and strong. His hand is sticky with sweat in a moment, and only then he realizes there are no needles, no spikes, only the hand gripping his.

 

He holds on, pets and holds on, pets and—

 

The lights come on and the hand disappears and the face fades away, but the ceiling still goes on, roaring in his ears. He swipes at his cheeks, brushes his face with his hands. The door opens swiftly and he keeps sitting on the floor, the surface cooling.

 

The doctor comes, leaving the door open. He can see the man’s arm holding it open.

 

“Arthur,” the doctor says, “you have a visitor.”

 

*

 

He’s sitting in a chair. He’s in a room filled with grey; the ceiling is grey, the walls are grey, the floor is grey. Even the lights a giving away a grey glow. He’s cold, his fingers are cold, his toes are cold. The room is quiet and grey.

 

He hears voices outside, two voices, talking and then the grey door opens and—

 

It’s colors, it’s colors everywhere, it’s soft red and orange and yellow and green and blue, the colors are shining and they’re gorgeous, they’re beautiful and they’re— It’s Eames.

 

He wants to stand up, wants to stand up and run to Eames; wants to touch Eames, wants to kiss him, wants to _touch_ and Eames is like a rainbow, so colourful, and he smiles, feels suddenly warm all over.

 

Eames’ eyes find his as he sits down slowly, on the other side of the table. Eames’ eyes are a hopeful shade of grey and he looks scruffy. There’s few days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks and Eames looks tired in a way he hasn’t seen before – but Eames’ eyes, they’re hopeful, he recognizes.

 

There’s silence, the pressing kind, and it feels off, somehow. He thinks one or both of them should say something, should say something because it feels like years since they’ve last seen each other and he isn’t sure, maybe it has. Time is something that’s not of importance, anymore. He catches a golden halo on top of Eames’ tousled head, shiny and pure and he laughs because it’s Eames and Eames isn’t pure, except he is, it seems. Eames isn’t laughing but there’s this quirk of his lips, like he doesn’t know how to react and that only makes him laugh harder.

 

He laughs until his sides are hurting, until there are tears on his cheeks, until it’s silent again.

 

Eames is still, continues to watch him.

 

His hip is itching under his shirt and he scratches before pressing his fingers into the gash, pressing them until he’s hurting again and the rush of pain shakes him.

 

“What is it?” Eames asks him then. The voice is rough, unused and low. There are purple flames swirling from Eames’ body.

 

He lifts his shirt gingerly and Eames leans forward to inspect the wound. He knows it’s infected, angry red, still and hot to the touch. He says, “I can’t remember how I got it,” and traces his index finger on top of the swollen strip of skin.

 

Looking back at Eames, Eames seems confused and asks, “Got what?”

 

“This, here.” Eames is still confused. “The wound?”

 

At that Eames recoils, sits back and stares at him. There’s silence again. He lowers his shirt, lifts his hand and bites the nail of his middle finger. Eames swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with effort, and says carefully, “It was me who was—it was me who got stabbed, Arthur.” And that’s not true, is it, because he can feel the pain, can feel the way the scarring skin is abrasive and can feel at nights how the wound aches along his heartbeat, can feel the radiating pain whenever he reminds himself. It’s not true because he can feel the pain right _now_ , burning, eating its way to the bone, spreading and spreading and—

 

“Arthur, you’re all right,” Eames says, looking ill. And that’s not true either, he wouldn’t be here otherwise and he’s not all right, he’s not—

 

 _He’s holding the knife, the shiny, army knife in his hand_ and there’s roaring in his ears, deafening roaring and he can’t hear anything else, can’t feel the blade he sees he’s holding and there’s Eames, oh god, there’s Eames, on the floor and there’s blood, there’s so _much_ blood and he feels like falling, feels the darkness breathing on his neck—

 

 _And there’s blood on his hands, dripping and Eames, Eames lying on the floor_ , a deep, deep gash on his hip and Eames’ hands are bloody, reaching, and his eyes, his grey eyes are staring at him, round and huge and there’s so much blood, on his white shirt, on his shoes, on his hands, and it’s pooling on the floor, under Eames and he can’t hear anything and he’s shaking, his hands are shaking—

 

 _Someone’s wailing, Eames, Eames, Eameseameseameseames, over and over again_ , crying and screaming and wailing and he’s shaking, he’s hot and cold all over, he’s numb and he’s shaking and Eames’ grey eyes are staring at him and there are bloody hands on Eames’ stomach, on his hips, trying to keep the blood in, hands bloody and someone’s still wailing, _Eameseameseamesemes_ , and there are hands on him, on his arms, on his shoulders, pulling him, twisting, and he’s shaking and falling and falling and falling and there are Eames’ grey eyes staring at him and god, so much blood and he’s falling—

 

 _And the ceiling is screaming Eames’ name, coming down, lower and lower and crushing him_ , and the wall is dark and rough where it presses against his cheek and the floor is burning him, the floor is on fire and he’s falling, falling—

 

And Eames is fine, Eames is sitting in front of him, looking tired, yet dapper, and he touches his hip again, feels the steady throb, wishes for something else, something else he was once looking for. Something he knows used to be important, something that would remind him of this, of that, of everything he needs to be reminded of.

 

“Mal told me once; it’s not about the journey, it’s about the destination,” he says quietly. He remembers wild, dark curls, a wise and gentle voice, remembers the lost eyes, the frantic simple-mindedness that was wrong, remembers how she was all lost. “What do you think?” he asks, and lifts his gaze to Eames’ tired face with dry lips and dark circles under the eyes.

 

Eames tries to hide the flinch but it’s useless, he sees it— he can see it all, can see everything and Eames leans forward again. There are warm, callused hands closing in on his, holding his hand, tightly. “Listen to me, love,” Eames says firmly. “This isn’t a dream.”

 

The look on Eames’ face is sad, so sad, and he can hear the ceiling again, as if crying, as if crying for Eames.

 

He smiles slowly, widely, because Eames is still colorful, looks like a damn rainbow with his yellow and green and orange, so colorful, so sparkly and the room around is getting dark, dark, dark. He squeezes Eames’ hand, the rough skin familiar, yet distant, and says, “In the end, it’s all just a dream.”

 

\- Fin


End file.
